


Four Autumns (and One Fine Spring Morning)

by Minuial_Nuwing



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fourth Age, Ithilien, M/M, Sultry in September 2013, Third Age, Vignette Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:45:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minuial_Nuwing/pseuds/Minuial_Nuwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of five vignettes offering glimpses of Legolas and Ithilien in the years following the War</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IgnobleBard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnobleBard/gifts).



> Written for the Sultry in September 2013 Exchange in response to the request: _Autumn in Ithilien. I'd like to see what Legolas is like as a ruler. Nothing maudlin. No sea longing and all that. No angst._
> 
> As some readers may notice, the Fine Spring Morning nestled among the Autumns is not actually a new vignette. With the exception of some very minor editing, it was written several years ago and has been searching for a time and place to call its own ever since. It fell so perfectly into the time and tone of this collection that I had to include it. I hope you don't mind, and I hope you enjoy the Four Autumns!
> 
>    
> Beta: Midnight Chaos (aka Dorkfish Girl) Thanks, punk!

The air was warm yet oddly crisp and the sky, framed by branches of glowing red, orange, and gold, was that certain shade of blue that is peculiar to the cusp of autumn.  Celeborn’s robes shimmered in the bright sunlight as he settled the circlet carefully on his kinsman’s brow, then stepped back, smiling.  “I present to you your lord and commander, King Legolas of Ithilien.”

A swirl of brightly colored leaves danced across the simple wooden platform as though the trees, too, honored their newly crowned king.  Rising from his knees, Legolas looked out over the gathered crowd and was at once humbled and terrified by the sea of hopeful faces that looked back at him. 

They had suffered, these elves, and their confidence in this new land and its ruler was tempered by the violence that had taken both hearth and kin such a short time ago.  Some uprooted by the destruction in Mirkwood and Lórien, others unable to remain in a homeland where blood had stained even the fondest of memories, they had followed Thranduil’s son to the new promised land of Ithilien. 

Among the anxiously trusting faces Legolas picked out a handful beaming with pride.  There was Lindel, his own beloved tutor and his father’s representative at the crowning.  A whisper of sadness at Thranduil’s absence was pushed away, quickly dismissed as self-indulgence of the worst kind.  His father had been badly injured in the last days of the war and had lain near death for many weeks, the combination of injuries and exhaustion testing even Elrond’s skill, and more than once the healers had thought the king beyond help.  But, through some combination of intervention and pure cussedness, Thranduil had survived and had only recently been able to begin directing the slow recovery of his own shattered realm.  Legolas hoped to have something substantial to show his father when the Mirkwood king was finally able to make the trip to Ithilien.

Estel – how would he ever learn to call the man Elessar? – and Arwen stood slightly apart, accompanied by Lord Faramir and his Lady, as well as a small contingent of guards that Estel no doubt found more tiresome than useful.  Gimli stood with them, his beard carefully braided and bejeweled and his comfortable, reassuring face wearing a brilliant smile at the honor accorded ‘his’ elf.

Beside them were Elladan and his family, whose already impressive ranks were now swelled by two marriages and a first grandchild.  Legolas ticked off the names as he glanced at each of them.  Falowen, the love of Elladan’s life and mother to his expansive brood.  Ellûreth, their eldest, stood with her husband and infant son.  The twins, Elros and Elurín, stood together, though Elros had an arm slung possessively around the shoulders of Daeros, Elladan’s newest law-son.  Then came Lúthiel, the very image of her Aunt Arwen, followed by Faeron, the changeling boy with hair the color of burnished copper, and finally Tinuwen, the youngest and professed last of the progeny.  The suggestion, made by Elrohir and seconded by Legolas, that one more would bring them even with Feanor’s record and two more would best him was not well received by Falowen, no matter how often repeated.

Then there, standing to Elladan’s other side, was Elrohir, his solid presence and shining silver eyes an instant remedy for all the uncertainty that had suddenly beset Legolas during the formal ceremony.

 Ithilien was his realm, his responsibility, and he would do this his way. 

Bowing to the surprised crowd, Legolas stepped off the platform and into the throng, unrolling the carefully drawn plans that Elrohir handed him amidst a rush of excited craftsmen and builders.

“But your majesty,” Lindel whispered urgently, having fought his way to the new king’s side, “this is highly inappropriate.  You should give a speech and then hear petitions.  Your father would-“

Legolas laid a hand on Lindel’s arm.  “This is a new day, my friend, and I am not my father.”  Turning back to the expectant crowd, he drew a deep breath.  “Well,” he said cheerfully, “let’s get started.”

 

*~*~*~*~*


	2. An Auspicious Storm

The wind whistled and howled outside the thin board walls, setting the last withered leaves of the season dancing and sailing against a cloud-laden sky.  The branches that overhung the modest structure that served as the royal residence creaked and moaned, but the chaos outside barely muffled the far more intimate noises echoing from within.  An owl who had thought to take shelter from the wind and coming weather by roosting in the eaves bore a few suggestive thuds and groans and then, appalled by such behavior in the hearing of polite company, flew on.

Inside, Legolas tightened his hold on the pillow before letting go a string of curses and a long, heartfelt groan that would have given some of his subjects pause, were the weather less cooperative or the elves more hardy.  As it was, only the owl and a passing guard noted the king’s end and the increasingly erratic thud of the bedstead against the wall, or heard the triumphant roar that burst from Elrohir’s chest in the seconds before he collapsed atop his lover, suddenly boneless and prone to laughter.  “If the winds were any less fierce, we might have drawn a crowd,” he snickered breathlessly, his face buried in Legolas’ hair.

Legolas chuckled, his own breath still coming fast.  “If you are going to perform like that again, I am not sure that wind alone will save us.  We had best wait for a real storm.”

“I heard no complaints,” Elrohir drawled, rolling onto his back and pulling Legolas into a sprawl across his body.

“You did not,” Legolas agreed lazily, pressing his cheek to Elrohir’s chest as the pounding of his heart gradually slowed. 

There was a long and comfortable silence before Elrohir raised his head, listening intently.  “I think the wind has died down a bit,” he said idly, letting his head fall back to the pillow. He pulled his fingers through his lover’s hair, carefully untangling the damp golden strands.  “You may have to hear petitions tomorrow after all, my liege.”

Legolas shifted away slightly and settled on his side, propping his head up on one hand.  “It is the ruckus over the girl Eirien that most concerns me,” he said without preamble or explanation, as though continuing a conversation already begun.  “It is a family issue, after all, and I was half inclined to refuse when her mother brought the matter to me and asked for mediation-“  He stopped abruptly, catching sight of Elrohir’s growing smile.  “What?”

Elrohir rose on his elbows and shook his head, his fraying braid slipping and sliding like a blacksnake across the rumpled pillows.  “I love you. That’s all.”

Legolas stared at him for a moment and then smiled sheepishly as understanding dawned.  “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

“Before the sweat has even dried,” Elrohir agreed, his smile broadening as he rolled to face his lover.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, ‘Las,” Elrohir said earnestly, his face sobering.  “You might wish to leave your crown at the bedchamber door, but you know that is not always possible.  Besides,” he added, his grin reappearing, “in this case I may be able to ease your mind.”

Legolas sighed.  “I wish someone would ease her father’s temper and foil her mother’s plotting.  He has decided - quite on his own, I gather – that she will apprentice to the weavers here and ’learn a solid trade,’ as he puts it.  The child’s mother has grander plans, which involve sending her back to Mirkwood to be introduced to the court and trained as a musician.  The real point of which, of course, if to affiance her to one of my nephews.”  The king shook his head tiredly.  “What the girl herself might prefer I have no idea, since she has never been invited to join the conversation.”

“Eirien seems a bright young lady,” Elrohir observed with a not altogether convincing air of innocence, “and things have a way of working themselves out for intelligent and enterprising young ladies.”  He shot Legolas a questioning look.  “If they are of age, of course.”

“I didn’t realize that you were acquainted,” Legolas said slowly, “but she is of age, yes.  As of the winter just past, according to her mother’s impassioned plea for intervention.”

“Good,” Elrohir replied, a smug grin curling his lips. 

“Do you plan to explain your despicable air of complacency, or are you sleeping elsewhere for the rest of the night?”  Legolas prodded dryly, and Elrohir burst into laughter.

“Given those options, I think I will explain,” he said cheerfully.  “Eirien has decided that she wants to study the healing arts, and she has already approached my brother requesting that he take her on as an apprentice in Imladris.”

Legolas sat up in astonishment.  “When?”

“This past spring, apparently, when he brought the whole clan down to see Arwen and Estel.  ‘Dan and Ellûreth both talked with Eirien, and he was impressed with the girl’s manner and determination.  He did not make a final decision at the time, but before I left the valley he wrote her with the news that he would be glad to welcome her as an apprentice in Imladris this fall, pending your approval.  She is to return with me and the boys, if you agree.”  Elrohir smiled faintly.  “I don’t think it ever occurred to ‘Dan that she was barely of age, as she never mentioned needing her parents’ blessing.” 

Legolas grinned.  “If it was Elladan’s daughter who did such a thing, he would throw a royal fit.”

“It has been and he did,” Elrohir reminded him wryly.  “Don’t you remember-“

“Lúthiel’s season with Gildor and his company,” Legolas interrupted, wincing.  “That was one time I was more than happy to still be residing in Mirkwood.”  He stretched out again, flopping on his back, and there was a moment’s pause before he added, “One of the very few times.”

Elrohir silently reached over and caught his lover’s hand, squeezing it tightly, their matching rings glimmering even in the dim light.  There was nothing new to say about the present and no point in trying to reassign blame for the past.  “Hey, wood-elf,” he teased gently, tugging at Legolas’ hand, “stop pondering the world’s problems and come here.”

Shaking off the unexpected wave of melancholy, Legolas laughed and obediently rolled into Elrohir's arms.  

“The wind is picking up again,” Elrohir said, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “I do believe it is going to storm.”

 

 

*~*~*~*~*


	3. Of Idiots and Impartiality

Legolas sighed audibly.  Outside the day beckoned, the morning’s chill already banished by the unexpected warmth of the late autumn sun, but here he sat, awash in parchment and petitioners when he would far rather be enjoying the final days of the season.  The complainants before him were so deep in their argument, however, that neither noticed their king’s displeasure.  Surreptitiously adjusting the circlet he wore in lieu of a crown, he fought the urge to bang their heads together and instead raised his voice over the tumult.  “If you would speak one at a time,” he said with what he considered remarkable forbearance, “I might find it easier to hear and judge your claims.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then both elves began speaking again.

“He is trying to weasel out of-“

“I’m telling you the colt won’t bear-“

“ _ENOUGH!”_ Legolas thundered, and the two before him stopped and stared in astonishment.  Rubbing his temples wearily, the king continued in a more normal tone.  “You will speak one at a time and be silent while your comrade speaks.  Vanion will begin,” he added, turning what he hoped was a neutral gaze on the puffed up petitioner to the left.

Legolas struggled against an active dislike for the pompous wheelwright, and it was only the years under Thranduil’s skilled tutelage that allowed him to keep his distaste for the self-aggrandizing dolt from showing all too clearly on his face.  ‘ _A king_ ,’ Thranduil had often said, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mirth, ‘ _must always be seen as impartial.  No matter what manner of idiots surround him_.’

“As you know, my lord,” Vanion began archly, “my father served as representative for the craftsman on the royal council in Mirkwood-“

“And my father led the council and ruled the realm,” Legolas interrupted mildly, “though neither of those points seems in any way relevant to the matter at hand.  Please keep your remarks pertinent.  There are others waiting for an audience.”

More affronted than chastised, the wheelwright went on.  “It is all quite simple.  I arranged for one of my draft mares to be bred to the largest stallion in his stable and the offspring broken to cart and work wheel as soon as feasible.  I have already paid the stud fee and board for both the animals through the spring just past, when the mare returned to my barn.  The colt’s board is paid through the year.  He is now claiming the arrangement cannot be honored due to some ridiculous horseman’s excuse.  We had an agreement and I demand satisfaction.”

The horse breeder was spluttering like a kettle at the boil, so Legolas merely looked at him and nodded.  “Rochgil?”

“I cannot in good faith keep our original bargain, your majesty.  I told him-“ he glared balefully at the wheelwright, “at the onset that I could not guarantee what manner of offspring we would get from the pair, and this colt will not bear the training.  He is too slight and high strung.  A fine warrior’s horse, but he would be hard pressed to pull more than a wagon of timber and he will never move the wheel.  He simply does not have the muscle for it.”

“Excuses!” Vanion muttered, and Legolas shot him a stern glance, before turning back to Rochgil.

“Not excuses, you fool, but _facts_ ,” the breeder countered hotly, then collected himself as the king’s hand rose in warning.  “A horse is not a strip of wood you can bend to your liking.  You cannot make him what he is not.”

“So what reckoning do you suggest?” Legolas asked.  “If Vanion is not to have the colt his mare delivered?”

“I have offered to return the stud fee and board for both the mare and the colt,” Rochgil replied.  “I will keep only the colt itself.”

“I have _money_ , my good man,” Vanion snipped acidly.  “I need a _horse_ , trained and ready to work by the year’s turning.”

_‘You need a good flogging,’_ Legolas thought darkly, but aloud he said, ”Vanion makes a valid point.  He has lost the time his mare was in foal, and that cannot be returned with the money.”  His eyes narrowing thoughtfully he asked, “Do you have a young horse that might serve, Rochgil?  One that could go in the colt’s stead?”

The horseman shook his head slowly.  “I do not, my lord.  I seldom breed to draft stock.” 

“Find one, then,” Legolas said decisively.  “Take the money paid and buy a likely animal at the sales outside Gondor, train it and deliver it on the agreed schedule.  The matter is closed.”

Rochgil nodded in relief, bowing low.  “I will, your majesty.”

Vanion sniffed.  “I suppose it is the only thing to be done.”

Legolas rose, indicating that the audience was at an end, and gave the wheelwright a look that might have frightened a brighter elf.  “Yes,” he retorted dryly, touching the circlet that gleamed on his forehead, “it is.”

 

 

*~*~*~*~*


	4. Empty Beds and Family Truces

Thranduil waited patiently, his eyes roaming appreciatively over the massive oak that would support his son’s new quarters.  Even at a casual glance, the plans Legolas eagerly examined promised a dwelling at once magnificent and uncomplicated, a brilliant harnessing of the space and light that the chosen site had to offer.  

“This will be a shuttered opening, my lord,” the craftsman explained, indicating a line that ran the length of one whole wall of the area designated for the bed.  “In fair weather you will have all the moonlight and cool breezes that Ithilien can offer.  When the storms come it will close up tight and you will be as snug as though the opening did not exist.” 

Only one who knew Legolas well would have noticed the brief flash of sadness that crossed his face as the builder discussed the details of the royal bedspace, but Thranduil recognized his son’s loneliness for what it was, and some of the joy slipped from the day.  “Come, Legolas,” he said at last, “can this conniving not wait out the morning?  You still have much to show me.”

With a final word of instruction to the craftsman, Legolas turned to smile at his father.  “It can,” he retorted lightly, “though it will be your fault if I have no bed to sleep in come winter.”

‘ _And Elrohir’s fault if you must warm it alone,’_   Thranduil thought, feeling for the moment somewhat less than generous toward his law-son, who had once again gathered his ever present contingent of nieces and nephews and returned to Imladris with the end of the harvest.  Long experience having taught him that his criticisms of Elrohir were likely to meet with a stony silence, however, Thranduil merely said, “Then I must have Galion send a store of blankets before the snow flies.”

They walked through the heart of the settlement and Thranduil smiled with pride.  His son’s realm was thriving, a rustic yet obviously prosperous collection of diverse people who had found a common goal.  He saw tree flets as fine as any in Lórien sitting side by side with ground level cottages and workshops, even a dugout here and there.  Everywhere there were smiles and cheerful faces and the comfortable hum of a community at peace with itself.  But to Thranduil’s mind more important still was the warm respect accorded Legolas by everyone from the smallest child to the oldest warrior.  His son was both honored and loved, and that was the true measure of a ruler.  They turned aside into the trees, taking a faint path that Legolas assured him would lead to the spring that supplied the colony’s water, and Thranduil looked around in delight, absorbing the sights and sounds and smells of a truly vibrant woodland. 

“It is complicated for him, Ada,” Legolas said abruptly, and an explosion of gold and red and withered brown burst into the air as he scuffled his feet through the heavy carpet of fallen leaves that covered the path.  “It isn’t as simple as picking up and moving.  Elrohir has responsibilities there, as I have here.”  He shot his father a challenging stare, the ghost of old arguments rising between them.  “As I had in Mirkwood for so many years.”

Thranduil sighed, glancing at the ring that had gilded his son’s finger for nearly two millennia, the band crowned with an intricate working of Eärendil’s star and the leaves of oak and beech that represented his own woodland realm.  “I know, Legolas,” he admitted soberly.  “But you must allow me my paternal posturing.  I see only your side of it all, as I am sure Elrond saw only his own son’s loneliness.”

Legolas remained solemn for a moment and then he smiled suddenly.  “I suggest a truce,” he said with apparent sincerity, though Thranduil detected a hint of laughter in his son’s voice.

“Yes?”

“You stay out of my relationship with Elrohir,” Legolas proposed, his eyes twinkling wickedly, “and I won’t tell Elladan that you were ogling his daughter at the harvest festival last month.”

“Legolas! I never-”

“You did.”

“She is…I am-“

“She is a beauty and you are a hopeless old rake.”

“Legolas-“

“Truce?  Or prepare to duel?”  Legolas’ smile broadened.  “Elladan is still pretty good with a sword.” 

“That sounds like blackmail, son,” Thranduil observed ruefully, but he was smiling as he extended his hand in surrender.  “Truce.”

 

 

*~*~*~*~*


	5. Welcome Home

Elrohir snuggled deeper into his pillow, loath to leave that hazy world between sleep and waking.  He had ridden hard for many days and his travel weary body rebelled against the morning, tempting him back to his dreams.   
  
But the gentle breeze that swirled through the open shutters smelled of fresh earth, blooming trees, and wildflowers, calling him to consciousness with the promise of a glorious spring day.  The linens were soft under his fingers, but softer still was the tousled hair that lay spread over him like some bizarre golden blanket, the ends tickling the skin just below his right hipbone most agreeably.  He shifted, then, and the sharper ache that assailed him chased away the last vestiges of sleep.  Elrohir swore softly, much to the delight of his companion.  
  
“Sore?”  Legolas asked, his blue-green eyes dancing unrepentantly as he rose on one elbow and looked down into his lover’s face.  
  
Elrohir grinned.  “Not as sore as you soon will be, wood-elf,” he retorted good-naturedly, tugging Legolas down into a lingering kiss.   
  
Pulling away reluctantly, Legolas followed Elrohir’s gaze to the small desk in the corner and the folded parchment that yet lay there, addressed to Legolas in Elladan’s elegant script.  Though Legolas could not see the words, they had lodged themselves in his heart.  Formal words, written not to a beloved law-brother, but from one ruler to another. 

**_“...hereby released from all duty and obligation to the realm of Imladris, that he might reside wherever he desires...”_ **

Legolas knew well how much those words must have cost both of the twins; Elrohir to request and Elladan to write.  “It is what you want?”

Elrohir raised his head and caught Legolas’ mouth in a fierce kiss, full of love and longing.  “It is what I want.”

“Then welcome to Ithilien, ‘Roh,” Legolas said, a brilliant smile lighting his face.  “Welcome home.”

 

*~*~*~*~*


End file.
